Autonomy
by Allebasii
Summary: Oneshot. It's the final showdown between the brothers and Abaddon, but things don't go according to plan; as Dean moves to complete his role as Cain to become a Knight of Hell, Sam has a choice. *Warning: Contains Character Death*


Dean starts to go after him, and Sam realizes, fully, just how far down the path Dean's walked, that his brother is just so far gone there's only two available options.

_Kill or be killed_.

He would _gladly_ sacrifice _himself_, if it meant he could help people. Help the world, maybe even save it.

But him dying here today won't help anyone, not in the long run.

If he dies here today, yeah, Dean has a pretty good chance of defeating Abaddon once he finishes becoming a Knight of Hell...But what about _afterward? _Would Dean wake up from his trance and come back to his senses? Would he be struck down as punishment for his actions, like Cain? Or would neither of those happen? Would Dean become a demon, forever hell-bent on death and destruction? He's already changed so much, he's so close to what they've dedicated themselves to hunting already-and Sam doesn't mean the 'monsters' they hunt, who just happen to not be human, and are striving to do good in the world, he means the _monsters_, the ones who give a bad rep to the rest of their species, the ones who massacre a whole city in a night over a perceived insult.

Is this what Dean would want?

Would Dean be able to live with himself if he wakes up to realize he's murdered the brother he's spent his whole life trying, (in his mind), to protect? The brother he's openly admitted he can't live without?

All of this, Sam's mind thinks in a split second.

Dean is still coming at him, the jawbone-blade grasped in his hand, the Mark glowing blood red on his arm, lighting his veins with liquid hellfire, his eyes alight with murderous intent, with absolute, mindless _hatred._

And Sam _realizes._

Sam realizes, as he twists out of the way of the incoming blade, as his long arms wrap around Dean's neck from behind, as his hands find themselves locked on either side of Dean's head, Dean's enraged howls and snarls echoing in his mind, as his arms and hands twist sharply to the side, as Dean's furious cries abruptly cut off, _Sam realizes._

_Dean was never Cain._

_Sam was._

The blade falls from Dean's limp hands; Sam lets it fall as he gently lowers his brother to the floor, gently closing the green eyes staring up at him accusingly. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a black suit and distinctive cheekbones leaning on an ornate cane.

Ignoring the apparition, Sam slowly bends down and picks up the blade, hefting it in his hand. _Perfectly balanced_, he thinks to himself. He's always been the tainted one. Always been _the boy with the demon blood_. Dean was the righteous man. Sam owed it to him, owed it to his brother, to make sure Dean was never the monster Sam had always known he himself was. He'd always been different….why not be different one last time? Why not take the burden from his brother's shoulders, and heft it on his own, one last time?

Why not let Dean die as the Righteous Man, one last time?

Leave his memory as untainted as possible? If not for Sam, then for the world.

He can hear Abaddon clapping slowly, and he turns to see her scarlet-adorned head grinning at him like he's a puppy who just learned a new trick. Behind her, the demons she's harvested stand stock-still, only their black eyes twitching to trace his movements.

Abaddon's form is clad entirely in black leather, and in her left hand she holds a pitch-black staff with a blood-red axe head at the top; _a halberd,_ he recognizes it as: perfect for stabbing _and_ beheading your enemies. It's perfectly suited to Abaddon's style.

She stalks forward confidently in her sharped high-heels, and he moves to meet her in the middle, His stride wide and his face erased of any emotion as he stares her down. Neither of them speaks as they circle each other, surrounded by death and destruction, Sam silently sending out a mental pulse at the small group of demons Abaddon's managed to collect from her soul factories.

In a split second, a fiery flash of light explodes behind the demons' eyes and mouths and the limp, soulless bodies fall to the floor. Abaddon twitches slightly in surprise, her mouth quirking up at the corner as she contemplates Sam, but again she says nothing, just silently grinning broader, before she makes the first move.

The long halberd spins and twirls in a deadly dance in her highly-capable hand as she lashes out at him, and Sam is forced to dodge this way and that before ducking in close, the Blade's reach being much shorter than the range of her halberd, but his longer arms help to give him a slight advantage, as well as more control over his actions.

The fight rages on, both of them exercising their physical and mental powers to the limit, hurling any object they can use as a weapon at the other with their respective powers of telekinesis, and soon the entire building is a wreck; perilous holes in the floor lead to the stone lower-levels, jagged shards of glass and wooden beams litter the floor that is still stable, and three out of four walls are no longer standing, the solid sheet-metal roof leaning in at a precarious angle, barely hiding Dean's body and the small flash of light as the black-suited figure knelt down next to it, an open carpet bag at his side.

Sam barely dodges a debilitating kick that caves in the sole remaining wall it lands on, and quickly brings his arm up to block a hit from the staff portion of the Halberd, lunging forward at Abaddon's moment of disorientation and unbalance from the deflected kick, his timing desperate but precise.

The Blade slides home into her chest, the handle pulsing in his hand with every stuttering beat of her host's heart; without hesitation, he yanks the gory knife out of her chest, and even as he feels the muscles of his arm (that blocked the strike break from her weapon) fracture and splinter under its force, his dominant hand moves unimpeded, the Blade whistles through the air as he slashes with all his might-and with a fiery explosion of ash and smoke, Josie Sands' body disintegrates, the writhing form of Abaddon's true self screaming and thrashing in the air before suddenly becoming solid, the black smoke becoming black sand, and falling to the ruined floor with a sound like a gentle rain.

A trail of moisture makes its way down his face, and he looks up in surprise to find that it _was_ in fact, raining, the drops of water gently drifting down from an oddly bright sky. Blinking at the sunlight, a ghost of a whisper at his side has him turning his head, and Death greets him with a small bow of the head, and a sardonic twitch of his wizened lips.

"Hello again, Sam Winchester." The skull-like face tilts to the side as he scrutinizes Sam's injuries, "I could heal those for you, if you wish. It is not something I often offer, to _give_ life instead of take it, but I think could make an exception for you, Sam Winchester, 'The Man Who threw the Devil from His Back.' There would be no greater honour," Death smiled, leaning in conspiratorially, "And that means something, coming from me." He winked.

Sam blinks at the title Death has given him, and with a sense of something breaking inside, he bites his tongue and smiles. _The Boy with the Demon Blood_, he thought, _that's not who I am anymore... It never was._ "I'm grateful for the offer," Sam says, gingerly running a hand along the many scrapes, scratches and bruises that decorate his face alone coating it in a fresh coat of blood, leaving his broken arm for the moment, "But I don't-I _can't_ stand another quick fix, not anymore; I don't want some miracle cure." Sam struggles to voice his thoughts, to put the words in his heart into spoken form, but Death simply smiles, in what might be pride.

"I am glad you have grown wiser, Samuel." Death tells the hunter, "I too, think it is time you are allowed- and allow _yourself_ to heal fully. With the 'quick fixes' as you say, the physical injuries are taken away with no chance for the mind to comprehend and understand. I think it is time you are allowed to come to terms with what you have gone through."

Sam smiled gratefully at the Horseman. "Is that him?" he asks, gesturing at the carpet bag with his good hand, "Is that Dean?"

"Yes." Death states simply, brushing a speck of dust from his lapel.

"Are you taking him to hell?"

"It is his fate. He took the Mark, without thought for the consequences. The Righteous Man is no more. After all, the road to hell is paved with good intentions...though I will admit his intentions were not..._purely_ good." Death admitted grimly, his black eyes boring into Sam's hazel ones, "Unless, of course, you have another suggestion?"

Sam nodded, and spoke: "Bring him to Heaven. Metatron is still on the loose. Dean can rally the old gang and help bring him down, let the Angels back in. Maybe they'll find Cas." For a moment, as Death himself stares at him in silence, Sam thinks that he has asked too much of the powerful figure.

But Death simply bows his head again and says "As you wish; but tell me, what you will do without your brother-your soul mate - or the angel? I have heard it many times that the two of you are inseparable, unable to live without the other; 'co-_dependent'_, as the angels like to boast."

Sam looked out over the green fields around them, the gentle rain still falling, the sunlight bathing the land in surreal, joyful warmth. Shaking his head, he spoke aloud, unsure whether he was addressing the Horseman or himself, "Dean was the one who couldn't live without me; I learned long, long ago, that _I_ can live without _him_. I can be happy without my brother in my life, knowing he's up there in paradise." Sam glanced over his shoulder at the spectre, "I'm going to be selfish, for the first time in my life. I'm going to live a safe life, helping people when I can, and Dean can stay in heaven, living in his perfect world. For once, I'm going to do something for _me._"

"Then I believe it's time I took my leave." The Horseman said, gathering up his faintly-glowing bag, the container of Dean's soul, "I hear there's a _very_ good steak house three states over, with a special price on Wednesdays. Would you care to join me? My treat." Death said, grinning an honest, if skeletal, grin.

Eating steak at a semi-formal restaurant with Death while the brother he just murdered soul is sitting in a carpet bag at their feet?

"Sure, sounds good." The Man Who Threw Off The Devil agreed with a small smile, "Just let me get patched up presentable first."

Straightening his collar, Death said: "It's a date, then."


End file.
